


Ten is the Beginning of the End

by Translate_Server_Error



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Omegaverse, Angst and Humor, Body and Gender, Drug Addiction, Experiments on Animals, Gender Issues, How to solve a case using your own slick, Humor, I swear there's humor although the tags sound kind of catastrophic, John Sweet John, Kidlock, M/M, Omega John, Questioning Omegaverse, Sex - of course, Sex Is Not Pornography, Slightly TeenLock, Suicidal Plans, creepy children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Translate_Server_Error/pseuds/Translate_Server_Error
Summary: “Die?” Mycroft’s voice was slightly deeper than last July. “Please, Sherlock, do not insult my intelligence. You could barely stand the thought of your body transforming if you are not there to catalogue and analyse the different stages of decomposition. You’re extremely jealous of your body, so much so that you don’t even allow doctors to examine it.” John opened his mouth to retort that no, Sherlock was not like that – seriously not at all. He had let him extract all his lower milk teeth and… And Mycroft continued: “You would live forever just to witness your death.”





	1. 27th July 1989

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not an English native speaker, which doesn't mean "If you see a mistake, just look away". It really means: "Help me make this story better (in a polite and respectful way)". My English is a strange patchwork I have been working on for several years - most recently, it has been a Placebo-induced state of mind. A Horcrux, since my so-called 'linguistic soul' is already splitted in three.  
> So, please be patient and let this little English Horcrux of mine grow.

“Okay, Sherlock.” Mycroft glared down at his 9-year-old brother leaned over his half-naked, tied down friend. “Playing pirate again?”

*

Sherlock Holmes was a strikingly contradictory child. He seemed to be quite fascinated by change, which was signalized by his fondness of chemistry and pathology. At the same time, his extraordinary love for change remained pure and untouched as long as the changing material was dead and separated from his own body. Truth to say, the latter had not been a universal condition anymore since he observed a wound turning into a scar in kindergarten. He accepted and encouraged the idea and the fact of the transformation of his body as long as he could (i) observe it and (ii) control it. Or preferably both.

Which seemed to be only possible in death. _Death_ , he scribbled between the lines of his Mind Map. Death was observable, death was controllable – unlike growing up. Death was much better than growing up. He wished he could change his body like he had changed his haircut for the previous 15 months, damn it. He had tried to die, of course. Several times. In a lazy, fascinated, mostly unconscious way – for the most part of his nine life years. But now it was different. It must be different from his previous experiments, which included:

  * Drawing a melanin pair of wings on his shoulder blades using only a few wood sticks and a life-threatening amount of sun light (first vacation, 17 months old). In spite of the huge danger lying in UV rays, which baby Sherlock had quickly dismissed at that time as “doo-doo-dully-dull”, he had been lying sprawled on his belly for a great part of his second summer trying to print on his skin a full set of purplish scale-like dragon wings. To be fair, the wings were quite accurate (with veins and all) due to the thinness of the sticks as well as his overexposure to the hot sun of Southern Greece. (If you observed his back quite carefully, you could still notice the scars of his second-degree sunburn between his fourth and sixth vertebrae.)
  * Methodically stabbing the soft crook of his arm with a home-made syringe (consisting of: his mother’s nose hair razor + thin straws + lighter + Cola tin can) until Mycroft came in, frowned and carried him to their parents’ room pretending to be responsible for, you know, the ‘accident’ (3 years old). To his defence, Sherlock had had quite noble goals: officially, examining his blood and creating a fancy pattern made of brownish thrombocyte clots on his skin; unofficially, the guy on BBC Radio 1 had asserted that plants could benefit hugely from a bit of animal throw-outs (including blood). And Sherlock was quite fond of his _ficus benjamina,_ after all. Unfortunately, that accident led to Mycroft being prematurely sent to Eton and Sherlock being (1) trapped under the (well, quite laughable) surveillance of his parents, and (2) confused by his brother’s pretension to taking credit for his work. Damn Mycroft, the selfish git.
  * Sewing together his toes and second fingers to prevent his mother from buying him a pair of “neeeat” (according to her) red flip-flops, which Sherlock had quite eloquently defined as “the worst thing in space and time” (lake trip, 5 years old)
  * Encouraging the exfoliation of his milk teeth by extracting them one by one in advance with a wide range of do-it-yourself utensils (6-7 years old, i.e. until John shook his head on a cloudy Tuesday afternoon and mumbled: “You’re having too much fun to be a good surgeon”). John’s intervention during the extraction of Sherlock’s upper incisors could have not been more fortunate, since otherwise Sherlock would have very vocally lamented the loss of his own – temporary as well as permanent – dentition by now, resulting in poor consonant articulation and limited speaking skills. (Well, on second thought, that would have made his life much easier.). But no, he wasn’t planning on orally cosplaying a cave. Oh no, he was way more far-sighted in his odontoiatric machinations. The second step after removing his deciduous dentition would have been preventing his permanent teeth from erupting and/or finally removing them all. In fact, he aimed at substituting his growing permanent dentition with a full set of artificial teeth, because what was the point of growing teeth that someday would have rotted away anyway? Apparently, none. So he started with his temporary incisors, which was why he couldn’t pronounce th’s properly till high school.
  * Listening regularly to low frequencies to develop a deeper voice (7-present). The theory behind it was rather questionable, but Sherlock insisted on conducting this long-term experiment even when John turned the page of his English textbook sighing: “You know, I’m going to be such a damn genius at school ‘cause the more stupid things you do, the more I’m forced to sit here and study. Which says a lot about how many really stupid things you do”. The truth was as always simple. Sherlock had noticed that Mycroft was gaining an exasperating amount of independency and trust from his family during his long leaves from Eton, which could only be due to his mysteriously huskier voice and hairier body. Since Sherlock was particular about his hair(s), he resolved to bet on his voice. Beethoven, Tom Waits, Johnny Cash, Wagner, Burzum, Joy Division, Leonard Cohen, Laibach and more generically antifolk, death metal, scratchy cello music, and growly ambient – he listened to all of it day in day out, with dubious but also fascinating results.
  * And, more commonly, taking dance and karate courses to become flexible like a lizard (6-8 years old).



To be clear, this is just a selection. In his ninth life year he seemed to have a peculiar interest in his hair, nails, teeth, and toes (yes, toes again). In a handful of months he had changed his haircut sixteen times, and accidentally settled for dark curly hair that wouldn’t stay silky again (John: “You’ve just invented the first permanent perm.” Sherlock: “Yes, John. People get a Nobel for much less.”)

Anyway, it was clear. There was something precious and puzzling about change. Something mesmerising. Change had set him in contact with John in first grade, shortly before he had switched to Kensington:

“Hey, you forgot your… uhm, tooth?” A pair of plump cheeks popped out of a group of equally round cheeks and bounced through the still chaotic classroom in Sherlock’s direction at the end of a shamefully unproductive November school day. It was Monday – no doubt it was Monday. Such things always happened on Mondays.

“Oh. Uhm, thank you.” Although he picked his tooth rather triumphantly from the tiny gloved hand stretched in front of him, Sherlock couldn’t help mirroring his interlocutor’s hesitation, apparently for no reason at all.

They stared briefly at a part of each other. John observed the tiny tooth cradled by Sherlock’s hand, while Sherlock’s gaze lingered curiously on the contours of his face, framed by a thin curve of yellowish hair and a terrifyingly old-fashioned beanie.

“Is that your first one? I mean, your first milk tooth to fall out?” As a big smile squeezed his interlocutor’s cheeks tight, Sherlock understood why the boy did not seem to be able to pronounce labiodental fricatives properly.

“No. I have already lost three this year. I accidentally swallowed the first one, though.”

“Cool.”

“Well, I retrieved it afterwards.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s cool.” John sounded slightly uncertain now, but his smile didn’t fade away.

“Then I stored it in the freezer with the other teeth, under my mother’s appendix and the pigeon wings. Would you like to see them?”

“Absolutely.” The polysyllabic word must have tasted strangely on John’s tongue, judging by the grimace that had creased his face. Was he trying to… make fun of Sherlock7 _Impress_ him? “I mean – oh, yes.”

They were already leaping on the backseat of Mrs. Holmes’ car when John remembered regretfully that he had not said goodbye to his schoolmates, which caused him to… Oh, look at that! Sherlock had a thick stream of toothbrush-like pale blue hair behind his right ear. What…?

“What happened to your hair?”

“An experiment,” Sherlock replied, managing to bite his lips proudly and shyly at the same time.

“Wow.”

Sherlock rubbed his fingertips reflexively against the pesticide oxidized on his hair before glancing sideways at John’s admiring expression.

“You are going to give me your milk teeth as soon as they fall out.”

John’s chin twitched visibly.

“What? No!”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it a bit creepy?” John finally took off his beanie and folded it, not intimidated in the least by Sherlock’s narrowed eyes. “And by the way, I’ve already sworn to my sister I would give them to her for, you know, the tooth fairy stuff.”

Mrs. Holmes almost missed a red light when she heard his son actually, undeniably, undoubtedly _giggle_ at someone who wasn’t dead/lethal/a bloody pigeon.

“Come on. I will let you play flipper.”

“Fine.”

They never touched Sherlock’s flipper. Ever. Instead, they observed teeth, blood and slices of skin, all stored in a fake vanilla ice cream box in the freezer. Sherlock’s parents would pointedly stare at them in the first weeks. It occurred to John only a couple of years later how young and genuinely confused they were. Mostly, Sherlock’s father would try to intervene with supposedly “fun” facts about hydraulic plants, space ships and a so called Infinite Improbability Drive.

“Come on, John. I will show you my collection of human nails,“ Sherlock would hide his things from his father and turn away, leaving John to silently apologize for his inappropriate behaviour. What was the opposite of _déjà vu_ again?

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Holmes would sigh. “He’s been an adolescent since before he was born. Which could be the only thing he took after me, I guess.” He usually rolled his eyes timidly (if that was even possible) and forced him to borrow another Douglas Adams’ book, possibly the hundredth copy.

“John,” Sherlock would call from the stairs. “You know that I hate to have to state the obvious, but I am waiting.”

Anyway, as time passed by, he lost interest in his own body (although he still took eternal messy baths for inscrutable reasons) and focussed on the thousand corpses he found in the neighbourhood every day. And on John’s speculation about them. And on John – at least when he wasn’t as annoying as he was being right now, curled on Sherlock’s room floor.

“John?”

“Doing my homework.”

“John?”

“Shut up.”

“John?”

“Did you know that some people use blood to feed their plants?”

“Yes. John?” No reply – good sign. “John, let’s play a game.” He traced the contours of the chair he was currently curled on and suddenly sprang up. “Let’s play murder!”

Two hours later, Sherlock was hovering over a hairy half-pound of flesh sprawled on the kitchen floor.

“So, that’s him, Detective Watson.”

John was so very pleased with himself. Oh, how pleased! He had done a brilliant job this time – of that he was sure. (Obviously, that was before he decided that killing animals for fun wasn’t fun anymore. And before he resolved that the next living creature he would have killed would have been not less than a man. Apparently, Sherlock agreed – he would have only killed animals for science, although the difference was slight.)

“Actually, Mr. Holmes, this is a woman,” clarified John.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and kept pacing around the brown pulp on the floor, preparing for his usual pre-revelation recital. 

“Twenty-four years old, unemployed, widowed and…” John followed hesitantly Sherlock’s gaze. _Shit._ A tiny little drop of chloroform was still hanging from the right corner of the victim’s minute mouth. No one missed Sherlock’s theatrical eye-roll at that – not even the dead hamster on the floor. “…and clearly an alcoholic, as you can see from the stains of vodka on her mouth.” 

Meanwhile in Sherlock’s head, he was skinning John using the mere force of his screaming voice: _“Do you realize 80% of this game consists of me making up for your sloppiness?”_

John knelt next to the corpse on the floor because that always seemed to distract Sherlock and make him smile for some unconceivable reason. Sometimes it worked even better than lip-stitching.

“How do you know she is unemployed, by the way?”, John asked. That the victim was widowed was blatantly clear – the hairs on the third finger had been specially removed and her nails irregularly cut off to suggest the most dramatic mourning state ever. That was what people did when they were let down, wasn’t it? Swallowing themselves to let new skin, hair and nails grow shaping a completely new person. That was what pain did, he thought. Pain… Pain turned people into werewolves. _Cool._ He scribbled it on his detective block and added _Sherlock said_.

“Look at her kitchen, Detective Watson. It is too clean for a woman who spends most of her time at her workplace. What if she has hired a housekeeper? Observe that miserable fridge. It’s totally worth the pigeon heads it contains.” John tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was basically mobbing his own parents and continued scraping the paper with his pencil. “What about a home job? Well, I can’t see how. She has got no television, no phone – and her sewing kit is a single block of dust.”

“Well, she could be… I don’t know, a yoga trainer. She could work with her body, so to speak.”

“Her body is a wreck. It looks like she has eaten too many sunflower seeds.” Sherlock’s not-so-implicit _J’accuse_ hit John for no reason at all, since his sister was the only one who used to take care of little Candy.

“So, she’s unemployed.”

“Most probably, yes.”

“Mmh-mmh.” It turns out you can’t articulate a more elaborated response while suppressing the widest knowing smile ever.

During those games, John was his murderer and detective, as schizophrenic as it sounded. Before they got to know the entire Scotland Yard crew (not worth baptizing them all, since Sherlock disgracefully tended to forget even his imaginary friends’ names), John would also play several DI’s and a bunch of stressed agents who looked surprisingly like their respective parents. That is pragmatic, and awfully oblivious. Or quoting Sherlock: “babbling corpses, and not nearly as interesting as actual corpses – what a shame”. 

Anyway, John was proud of his multiplayer privileges in their games and soon learned how to assist Sherlock without giving away too much information about the murder. He learned – mostly unconsciously – how to provide him with stimuli, how to keep him there, safe, right, and alive.

“Detective Watson, please hand me the report of… Who is our pathologist today?”

“Dr. Caesium.”

“Fantastic, I hate her.  So… The corpse is still in the autolysis stage, which is…”

“Of course it’s in the autolysis stage. What do you expect me to do, kill an animal and let it decay in my drawer for weeks till our next play?”

“Shsh, John. No meta-play,” Sherlock murmured. He took one of his mother’s absurd flyers pretending to skim Mrs. Caesium’s report. “Besides, it is not obvious at all. You could have found a dead body and created a plot around it.”

John didn’t answer at all because (1) the thought that Sherlock considered him capable of inventing a criminal plot offhand made his throat swell uncontrollably against any law of nature, and (2) he had actually tried to do something similar once. A couple of months before, John had found a dead hound on the side of East Road with multiple wounds on its back – probably knocked down by a large car or a lorry. And Sherlock had cried for hours. Once at home, he had shot John alternatively his most desperate and murderous gazes, refusing to believe that the hound was already dead when John had found it.

“So, according to Mrs. Caesium, there are no signs of collusion on her body. Mrs. Caesium, surely you will think that I am trying to question your competence, ethics, and bona fide in one single shot – and you would be absolutely right – nevertheless, I need to ask you explicitly on what base you wrote that there are no signs of collusion.”

John stood up in his Mrs. Caesium’s pose (narrowed eyes + left hand on his kidney + wrinkled chin), vaguely suggesting an antediluvian turtle, and performed his best scratchy voice. “As you can see, you little arrogant cock, the victim’s body is intact, apart from the finger where her wedding ring was wrapped. The victim clearly suffocated.”

Finally! Two years after their first play, he had finally managed to do his job without bursting in embarrassed laughter. He did have to get used to that, after all. John was always playing a part during their games (several parts, actually), while Sherlock tended to dive into his stories starring as a random passer-by/postman/homeless with highly improbable X-ray senses and a pathologic tendency to stuck his nose in everything concerning a corpse. Pretty accurate characterization, truth to say.

Not that John could complain, anyway. It was unexpectedly fun, even though at the beginning he just wanted to get rid of his dolls. Because that’s how their game had begun – with miserable 7-year-old John’s complaint: “You know, my parents are always giving me dolls ‘cause they…”

And 7-year-old Sherlock’s proportionally cocky rectification: “ _Because_ , not _‘cause_. Why do you insist on decapitating conjunctions? That’s cruel.”

John’s resigned explanation: “Okay. Well, I was saying – my parents think I should get used to taking care of people.”

Sherlock’s distracted comment (he was painting a spider web with fluorescent ink to create an upgraded mosquito-killer): “No wonder. Everyone would like their son to be a doctor.”

John performing a nearly perfect imitation of Sherlock’s snort. “No, it’s not like that. They say I’m supposed to take care of my dolls like they – my parents – take care of me. You should see them – I mean the dolls. Your overcooked pigeon bones are adorable in comparison.”

Sherlock pouting and lighting up at the same time: “My overcooked pigeon bones _are_ , in fact, adorable. Anyway, it is a shame that we are not allowed to choose our own parents. Could you imagine how wonderful it would be to…?”

John’s pinching fingers at Sherlock’s foot on the ladder: “Sherlock, be serious – you would refuse to have parents even if they were Albert Einstein and Leonardo da Vinci.”

Sherlock’s hand trembling on the ceiling: “I would speak German and Italian in that parallel universe. That would be cool.”

John’s smiling voice: “First of all, you already speak German. Secondly, no matter how intelligent and open-minded your parents are – you’ll always get creepy dolls from them for Christmas.”

And finally, in his best mad scientist’s tone, Sherlock’s proposal: “If you don’t need your dolls, we could use them here.”

Since then, John had come up with hundreds of plots stretching from mystery to criminals (including a couple of sci-fi story, which Sherlock hadn’t appreciated in the slightest). None of their parents was worried about them playing with dolls. Actually, they were a little worried about them playing _together_ , but for the wrong reason. _Two potentially Omega boys playing family with Barbies? That’s preposterous._ The fact that those dolls were regularly stripped, ripped and covered with (mostly fake) blood during their games seemed not to concern them in the least.

Sadly enough, the era of dolls came and went away like clouds on a windy day. Or like the dark on Sherlock’s hair every time he played with liquid bleach. John’s hundred plots slowly turned into hundred animal corpses – mostly pigeons, goldfish (even though a little limiting since they automatically ruled out drowning as death cause), hamsters, snakes, frogs, mice, rats, squirrels and sometimes even swans and little cats. After a hilarious accident with a particularly tenacious kitten, they decided to prepare their victims before inviting them to their game. Not that the kids were particularly sympathetic – working with chloroform just seemed more, say, professional. 

Nearly as professional as Sherlock standing in the middle of the kitchen and frenetically turning a hamster pulp in his hands. 

“This case requires further exams.” 

But certainly more professional than John’s unsettling fascination at the filthy sound of smacking flesh coming from Sherlock’s fists.

“As you…” John cleared his throat to adjust his voice for the adequate amount of scratchiness Mrs. Caesium required. “As you see, the victim needn’t be undressed, since it’s… she’s already naked,” he concluded, gesturing toward the dead hamster on Sherlock’s hand.

“Nice try. Razor.”

_ Shit _ . Perhaps he hadn’t been that clever, after all.

He didn’t think he was really going to shave the hamster. He just _couldn’t_. If he had seen the water tattoo on the victim’s back under her fell, he would have surely deduced that the murderer was actually her boss (because the victim was not at all unemployed) and not-really-dead wife who had tried to ruin her life all along feigning her death and making her professional life simply unliveable. _Shit_. Shit! Shitty shitting shit! Although… what? Sherlock was pointing the razor to the victim’s chest. Well, at least he could stop panicking as long as Sherlock kept missing one thing each time. Then again, it was pretty easy to distract him.

Sherlock was looking for a single term for _blatantly simple –_ one compact adjective capable of expressing his exasperation and disappointment in a unique set of three or more syllables – when it happened. “It” would be addressed in the following weeks as The Horror, The Disaster, or simply The Beginning Of The End (short: TBOTE). More precisely, its prelude – but let’s not split hairs, especially when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

Screams. People screaming.

And something like… soft, _creamy_ noises. 

From upstairs. Where there was supposed to be no one.

_ Holy holiness. _

“Wow, you did an excellent job this time.” Sherlock briefly frowned at the word _excellent_ , which sounded very much like Mycroft.

John smiled his most confused smile and did not even consider the possibility of telling Sherlock that no, he couldn’t take credit for the grunts and cries echoing from upstairs. Not at all.

Tension. Here it was, blood like butter in their veins. At that time, it seemed to be the only thing that could kill them. The only thing that was worth getting up for.

“DI Watson, your gun?”

“In my pocket. Yours?”

“Same.” Sherlock whispered around a wild smile. “Let’s go.”

The sounds ceased for an instant as they strode over the yellow ribbon John had stretched around the corpse to simulate barricade tape.

Neither of them knew what walking meant when they sprang and ran upstairs – sometimes ducking furtively, sometimes rolling rather dramatically on the floor. They had never been on the same knowledge level – Sherlock thought it would have been embarrassing to admit he knew as much as John did in a particular situation, but it wasn’t. It was… butter. Butter through his veins, melting down at light speed.

Neither of them could open their eyes wide enough. 

Neither of them could stop watching.

Neither of them wanted to keep on watching.

Till both of them slid on the floor, right on the doorway. Their eyes still open, their faces turned to Mycroft’s desk like two sunflowers at the sunset.

Thinking back to that moment several years later, John would compare the hypnotizing and vomit-inducing scene to the video clip of “Thriller” or “Hey boy, hey girl”. Sherlock would just avoid to think back – or avoid to think at all, for once.

At that moment, since his passer-by/kind-of-detective identity required it, he was forced to think. And when he thought about what he was seeing, he decided he was watching a particularly violent chess game in which the Black King had Mycroft’s face and was repeatedly attacking the White King from behind with his Tower. It did sound like one of his recurring nightmares, actually. Just, it was much cleaner and far more silent in his dreams. And the White King had not their car washer’s head on his body. 

Around them, the chess table was an absolute mess. If he had been able to close his eyes, he would have smelt sweat, heat, and his beloved butter-in-the-veins. And John’s terrified breath next to his cheek.

Breathing seemed to let the panic evaporate and condensate again on his skin in a infinite horror cycle, John thought. So he stopped.

Just for an instant – just to point his plastic gun to the two half-bare arses jumping in front of him and then slide it back in his pocket.

It was the desperation of the act that shocked him, John would recall during his first Reproduction Techniques and Alpha/Omega Dynamics exam. Flesh slamming against flesh slamming against wood slamming against bones. Sherlock’s brother slamming his groin against his… friend? Who was that, anyway?... and almost tearing him apart. And the liquids, the smells that turned into savours every time he breathed… And the sounds, the _plop_ ’s and the _grlw_ ’s. It was like being the turkey on Thanksgiving’s Day and _enjoying it_. _Craving. For. It._

Oh, dear Lord.

He felt the cracker he had eaten at home fight for its pulpy life and crawl up his throat to see the light.

And that was when he pushed Sherlock on his back and rolled back with him toward the stairs – possibly to die in a rather practical way, because John was always John. But no. They left the sweaty chess table / filthy Thanksgiving meal to sit in silence on the first step. If silence meant “Ah!” and “Oooh!” and “Yes! Ng! Rrrr!” coming from behind them. What was that, a damn prehistorical graphic novel?

They knew it was a rut. They knew it because Sherlock’s books said _and_ showed it. Not that way, of course. They knew that poor guy was an Omega and was having… _something_ in Alpha Mycroft’s room, between Alpha Mycroft’s desk and Alpha Mycroft’s groin, hands, and knees.

Mycroft! The same Mycroft who had disinfected his own cheeks after being kissed by his mother for the start of the long leave. The same Mycroft was doing _that._ Gripping another body… a fat body! Trying to invade his colon with his own body against any law of physics! He suddenly missed his dead hamster, before he remembered it was still on Sherlock’s hand. Which, oddly enough, caused him to laugh soundlessly.

There was a great range of things John refused to consider during his “hysterical, John – really, you are being hysterical” laughter. Here is a censored list:

  * Him being an Omega.
  * Mycroft being an Alpha.
  * Alphas being attracted to Omegas.
  * The not so far-fetched possibility of Mycroft crossing his way in the corridor just five minutes before and then having… that, just that, with him.



“Probable, yes, yes, and no.”

“What?”

“No, he didn’t force him. He has invited him here. They had a deal.” He looked back at the smeared telephone on the chaise longue, the only object in Mycroft’s room visible from there. “And no, it didn’t have to happen to you. Alphas don’t have to have coitus during ruts. Besides, you have not developed yet.”

“Yet.”

“Yet.”

“That is… it’s going to happen someday.”

“Yes.”

“They seemed to enjoy it, though,” John proposed, but Sherlock’s shocked look felt even more uncomfortable than the stairs they were sitting on.

“How can you enjoy being used and losing consciousness in the hands of another person? It’s the most violent thing I… You know I don’t despise violence. But on a scale from humiliating to disgusting, _this_ would never cease to spin from an end to the other.”

Not that sex was a mystery to Sherlock. His green block note (March-June 1986) was full of observations regarding dog penis measurements and dilation coefficients. Like growing up, also sex was something he enjoyed looking at as long as he wasn’t observing a mirror. The mere idea of letting…

Besides, they had studied the gender dynamics at school two years before. Sherlock had immediately deduced that John was an Omega because – God, it was so obvious. He would have killed to know his second gender, too, since his parents had been so idiotic to refuse the placenta test when his father was pregnant because, well, “we don’t want our kids to grow up thinking we are loving them because of their gender and not because of who they are”. Damn hippies.

Congrats. And now? Now it was impossible to find it out until his internal organs grew like a tumour in his insides. Unless he prevented them… himself from growing up.

From behind them. a grunt turned into a harsh scream and faded away.

“So,” John tried again. “This is it.”

“Apparently.”

“And we’re going to die before it happens to us, aren’t we?”

“Obviously.”


	2. Conversation 9

John’s proposal was not that inconsiderate, after all. On the contrary – the mere idea of death and decay and escape seemed impossibly enticing. He had already planned his half dandyish, half Tarantino-like death long ago – it wouldn’t have been difficult to adapt his plans to the current circumstances. The hardest part was to convince John to follow him, because yes, John had been the one to propose that genial solution, but that single moment of clarity had to be played and replayed before John’s eyes so that it could be absorbed on a more conscious level.

So, after three hours of unbroken silence, Sherlock put his volatiles aside and turned his chair toward John.

“You are going to be too short to get enrolled in the army.”

“What? The army?”

“Yes, John, the army. Keep up!”

Actually, he had had that conversation in his head when John had probably fallen asleep on his homework, so he simply started from the point where he had reached an impasse. For the record, his mental conversation had proceeded in a non-progressing circle more or less this way:

“I despise a world in which we can’t play together the whole day.”

“Yeah, Sherlock, but it’s not that we play on a daily basis. It won’t be that different from now, really. It’s just… Instead of going to school, we’re going to spend part of our days working or…”

“Working? Me? I am never going to work. Ever. Working is dull.”

“Yes, okay. But we’re going to have… I don’t know, spouses and kids eventually?” He had suppressed that thought – John would have never used the word ‘spouse’. That wasn’t working at all. He rewinded the conversation and recorded another piece of John’s response on the last one.

“Yes, okay. But you know we’re going to have a family. I don’t know – resp… Re-spon-si-bi-lities and…”

“We already have a family. You have got your fathers and Harry, I have my parents. And my pigeons.”

“And Mycroft.”

“And kind of Mycroft, yes.”

“I suppose we’re going to change, Sherlock.”

“I expect nothing less.”

John sighed in his head, so he went on. “You’re an Omega, John. Someone will claim you just like Mycroft did and you will be clinging to them for the rest of your life.”

He skipped the part of the conversation in which John stared at him in bewilderment and asked how he could possibly know about his second gender. He moved forward to John’s proposals.

“Well, if you present as an Alpha, that wouldn’t be a problem. You could… We could… Since I’m an Omega, I mean…”

“I…” Possibly, there was something wrong with his Mind Map John. “I am not going to bite your nape and do… whatever people do.”

“What if you’re a Beta?”

“Someone will claim you anyway.”

“I could take pills to prevent it.”

“You could forget to take them at some point.”

“I could get a shot of that substance that inhibits heats and secretions for a long time span. You know, that thing you get in the army.”

Sherlock snorted: “Look at your feet.”

“Wh… Ah? What?” He didn’t know why he sometimes used John’s poor rhetoric in his mind. He occasionally even stuttered while thinking, just like John did when he spoke.

“You are going to be too short to get enrolled in the army.”

And there he was, back in his room.

“What? The army?”

“Forget it, it was just a thought.”

Well, that was alarming, John thought. He profited from the silence to stretch around Sherlock’s ears his own stream of considerations about the most recent events. Because he was still deeply disconcerted. But Sherlock was literally panicking and trying to enlighten/rescue the universe, although John wasn’t able to follow the thought process that had led him to make that question. And this was new. And oddly pleasant. Probably because this made him feel useful – not that John was aware of these dynamics, of course.

“You surely don’t believe that we will stay like this forever, do you?”

“Like this?”

“Yes. Friends.”

“Why not?”

“Because nobody stays friends forever.”

“You know I detest that word. Stop using it.”

“Friends?”

“Forever. Anyway, I can’t see why you believe that.”

“Because we’re going to change, Sherlock.” No, not again. “You surely had friends before me and… and your paths just parted, because that’s what happens when you change. You of all people should know that. It’s… it’s like that thing you did last week in the bathroom – electrolysis. Or… wait, it’s like…” John couldn’t believe he had spoken so long without Sherlock interrupting him. He almost felt ashamed of how incredibly proud he was for having completed a thought.

“You are speaking in quotable phrases today.”

“Have you ever had… friends?”

“Yes, one. This is not a secret.”

“You’ve never talked about it. How was he… she… like?”

“You have never asked. He was responsible for 80% of my active lexicon when I was three.” He had taught him _words_. Precious, little, merciless, caring, long words. Was John allergic to nuts? Was he even eating nuts? Anaphylactic shock did not feel any different, did it? “He had a bike, six siblings, red hair, a funny hat. And something around his wrists… and a 1/8 violin. He was… three years older than me. We used to play pirates.”

A funny hat. Funny, hm?

“So that’s why the girls in the neighbourhood keep calling you Captain Hook.” Which didn’t explain why they called John Tinker Bell, though.

“Yeah,” Sherlock breathed out, vague like he never was. “Victor was Redbeard.”

Oh, Victor.

“You mean the Holy Roman Emperor?”

“Probably. I had no Mind Map at that time. Why is this emperor famous?”

“Redbeard? Well.” Say he was a twat! “He… was a far-sighted strategist.“ Say he was a prat, the biggest prat an emperor’s crown had ever had the misfortune to touch! “And… he was a brilliant statesman.” Say it rudely, say he was a _fucking arsehole, bitch_. Say it! “The Pope… He wasn’t quite into the Pope and clerical overpower.” Oh please! “Oh.” Say! “And…” It! “And he…” _NOW_! “Of course, he had a red beard.”

Surprise, surprise.

“Yes, that sounds like him. Except for the red beard – he had red hair, though.”

“How long have you been friends?”

“Nineteen months.”

“What happened then?”

“He grew up.”

“And you made no friends after that.”

“No.”

“So, you were like… traumatised by…”

“ _Trauma_ tised?” Sherlock’s voice went impossibly shrill at the first syllables and dropped an octave near the end before condensing in a bitter whisper. “There doesn’t have to be a trauma behind a lonely person – behind a person who regards malfunctioning and dead bodies as more appealing than family routine and _mates’ talks_ ,” he almost spat. “Said person, John, doesn’t have to be broken. Said person, John, doesn’t have to be a victim – he could always choose to be one, but he won’t. Said person, John, doesn’t need to be fixed by healthy relationships, because, John, I honestly cannot see anything unhealthier than relationships sometimes.” Not ashamed in the least of his tears of rage. “What do you think is behind me, John? A trauma? What are you seeking, John? I have already dissected all the potential _episodes_ , and scattered… shuffled them around on my Mind Map, and played with them. In my games I chose the ones I hated the most to turn them into points and streets and crossings – to have a choice. I _chose_ them. I chose to be who I am – and if something has ever affected me so far, that’s because I let it.  Where you see symptoms, I see paths. Stop it, John. Stop pathologizing me. I don’t need a doctor.”

_ I need a friend _ , he thought.

_ I need my friend _ , he thought.

“I don’t think you’re alone.”

“I guess I am going to get used to it, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. The real trauma is yet to come.”

John picked up a pencil he hadn’t even realized he had dropped.

“I don’t know if I want to die. I mean, I’ve got plenty of crime plots we’ve not gone through yet.”

*

There was an old French Omega poem called “The Forest of the Skeleton Leaves”. Another worthless piece of Omega dirt, the Alpha critics said. Another worthless piece of French crap, English critics said. We’ve read worse, Beta critics from all over the world said (England excluded). Interestingly enough, only a few of them could speak French.

The poem was first translated into English in 1837 by Sir Abermond D. Clinkling. It would be nice to say that he was a brilliant mind, a revolutionary thinker, and a conscientious translator. But no. Sir Abermond D. Clinkling was just another British scholar with a ridiculous name who needed an irrelevant topic for his mediocre PhD thesis – and please, as soon as possible. He was so mediocre that he couldn’t even be defined as _extremely_ mediocre – he was just averagely mediocre, so to speak. Just like his translation of the last strophe of “The Forest of the Skeleton Leaves”:

[…]

So we died in our beds of flesh, with our backs facing the door.

When the walls of freedom fell down one by one,

One by one we crawled under our bones.

The Forest of the Skeleton Leaves

Leaves us alone, in September.

As it’s perfect in September.

In September, it’s fine

To die in a

Heart--

Breathe. 

The word for “forest” also meant “sneeze” in that particular variety of French, so poor Sir Clinkling wasn’t ready to bet his best boots on it (not even his worst ones, to be honest). If the author of the French poem had laid in a grave (once deceased, European Omegas were traditionally hung upon the fairest pines until the Napoleonic hygiene and burial laws were applied in 1804), he would have tossed and turned like a hysteric tuna trapped in fishnet tights. 

Anyway, the poem was located on the outskirts of Sherlock’s Mind Map (N96°31’ E89°8’). Sherlock was sure there was truth in those (poorly written) lines. Every day before 1st January 1990 was fine. Every hour before their inevitable 10th birthday – and the consequent growth of their reproduction organs – was fine. Because ten was the beginning of the end.

Especially September was fine. They would still spend the last summer days at an almost deserted Norbury Lake – without Mycroft, who had left for Eton two days after his rut, as if nothing had happened. Besides, they would have enough time to arrange their… death, so to speak.

And to collect additional data.

“Take your clothes off.” As John hesitated, Sherlock stepped closer and shook his shoulders. “Come on, John! _Undress_!”

“What… why?”

“I need to compare a limited range of our body features to find out if my organism is on the verge of becoming an Omega’s body.”

“That’s the worst idea ever. I won’t take my clothes off – not for you, not for your future’s sake. Literally for nothing in the world. So please, go away.”

“John, I need…”

“I don’t care. I won’t do this.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s weird. It’s weird as hell, Sherlock.”

_ As hell _ ? Sherlock sighed. Someone should have separated John from his sister and her feeble-minded teenage friends. They clearly had an atrocious influence on John.

“There are tons of anatomy books in the world. Borrow one, buy one, make one simply appear – I don’t know, I don’t care! I’m not going to lie naked on your desk like a slab of meat.”

“They’re ignominiously inaccurate. They all attest that the second gender doesn’t affect the external features of the human body. There’s no way to know if one has a womb, unless you conduct an internal exam – but here is the thing: wombs only start to develop when an Omega turns 10-11, which means that according to the recent anatomy and physiology studies you possess no phenotypical features whatsoever which could irrefutably attest your second gender. Until now. I am going to try… I am going to _find_ evidence in your body.”

“Ignominiously?”

“God, John!” Sherlock reached out to pass John his notes. Then, he changed his mind quite abruptly and threw him his three-pound Oxford dictionary, which landed miserably next to John’s left foot. “Look it up!”

Sherlock Holmes had always had a great limit: he thought – probably given his age and, in spite of all, his low experience – he thought that everything could be solved with a certain amount of rationality. This amount usually tended to expand when it came to John Watson.

John waited expectantly for a prosecution. When Sherlock started to examine the dust on his desk instead, he finally asked. 

“Your fear of being an Omega makes no sense.”

“Please.” He snorted shamelessly. He snorted!

“I’m an Omega.” John yawned to hide his grin.

“Of course you are.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty… Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“John, your personality indicates an accentuated propensity to passive attitudes and caretaker tendencies. Cheer up, you are going to be an efficient lover and a good mother.”

“Well, you… you can’t pronounce th’s properly,” John mumbled, hoping that was enough to defend his own dignity.

“What?”

“Nothing.” That wasn’t worth it, after all.

In spite of his quite Sherlockian reaction to his friend’s assumptions, John was struck by that thought. _Being an Omega?_ He really didn’t want to let anything slip in and out of his body for the rest of his life – neither a prick nor a baby. A _baby,_ for God’s sake! And by the way, where should a baby…?

He let that thought drop and focused on the creases on Sherlock’s beloved “Hell is other people”-T-Shirt. “So, you are pretty sure you’re not an Om...”

“I’m not an Omega,” announced Sherlock, stiffening in a sulking zigzag line at the radiator. 

“Yeah, but how do you know?”

“I’m not an Omega.”

“Fine, but what would you do if…?”

“I’m not an Omega.”

“What if you actually are...?”

“I’m not an Omega.”

In the end, John gave up speaking at all, since in forty-five minutes “I’m not an Omega” had been the only Sherlock’s response to a great variety of questions, amongst them: 

  * “Have you made your History research for tomorrow?”
  * “Should we name our frogs before killing them?”
  * “How should we name them?”
  * “Should we really kill them?”
  * “Well – possibly, it’s too late now, but… What’s wrong with us?”
  * “Sherlock?”
  * “What’s wrong with _you_?!”



Admittedly, he had not expected any response to that last one. Sherlock only changed his answer when John asked him about an “odd circle with kinda feet” in his third Geometry task. 

“It’s an Omega. Unlike me – because I’m _not_ an Omega.”

When he spoke again, circa three hours later, Sherlock’s voice echoed in the room in all its unique, petulant, extraordinary energy.

 “So, you are ready to die. With me.”

“Of course I am.”

Of course he wasn’t.

Which is why he called Eton twenty minutes later.


	3. 12th September 1989

“Do you have a last request?”

“We are entitled to a last meal, aren’t we?”

“As you wish.”

John paced wordlessly toward a green neon sign.

They did not leave any lines. It was supposed to look like an accident, so they just filled a bag with books, juice bottles, and sweaters and slid out of the front door while Sherlock’s parents were watching a reportage about East Germany in their room.

The bar was nearly as dark as the night behind the dusty windows. Nearly as soporific as the lake air in the late summer.

“Sit down.”

John looked up and inhaled to retort something passive-aggressively sharp when he saw Sherlock walk to the bank and stand in line without even tapping one of his absurdly big feet, as he always did while waiting.

He didn’t feel like protesting. 

“They ran out of green tea,” he tsk’ed with disapproval and settled a big plastic cup between John’s hands three minutes later. “So I ordered a jasmine tea.”

“It’s fine.”

He returned to the bank stopping behind a family who had nonchalantly skipped the line. It was beyond surprising what an imminent death seemed to do to Sherlock’s chronic indolence when it came to simple everyday tasks and courtesies. What a wonderful adventure could have been to meet him again in his next life and spend his life with him, John thought. He was still smiling a little smile – one of those smiles he used to hide with his hand – when Sherlock’s reflection suddenly mixed with an ice cream ad on the window at his left. John observed how the world at this and that side of the glass melted into one single liquid mosaic of bright shadows, how Sherlock’s uncharacteristically black shirt exploded in an electric blue blur and faded away in thick flecks of grey.

Thick like butter.

John circled the hot plastic of the cup with his already sweaty hands and turned his head toward the bank just when a dim grey Volkswagen cut through the fog. John didn’t see it drive unceremoniously over a flowerbed and stop in front of a closed bathing clothes shop – and that’s a shame, because that sight could have spared him a multiple near-death experience an hour later.

John was observing Sherlock, instead. He saw him shoot a threatening glance toward the waitress for no apparent reason and abruptly turn to John. Sherlock gesturing him to drink his tea and smiling. 

He placed a thin paper triangular dish and a strangely unmatched blue handkerchief beside the tea and slid on the yellow chair across the table.

“Cold pizza?”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

After the meal (which only John consumed), Sherlock reminded John once again that – no matter how clever you are, ice-cream at midnight was still the most tempting opportunity ever when you are nine. Or forever, for what it’s worth.

But once again, Sherlock just led him out of the bar toward the lake and simply watched him eat his ice-cream.

They sat in silence under a huge disco ad, since all the benches on the Northern shore were still wet from the rain. 

Sherlock stood up after two minutes, pacing around like an obsessive-compulsive guard dog and tormenting his cherry red stripe of hair on his forehead. John could almost taste the excitement in Sherlock’s voice when he spoke.

“Are you afraid?”

“N…” As soon as his hibernated tongue came to life again, he continued. “No. You? Are you afraid?”

“I am afraid that life after death is actually a big colourless and odourless and tasteless nothingness, which would really suck.”

“Sherlock.”

He smiled.

“Seriously, I am rather curious.”

Against the lake, with his hands in the pockets and that absurdly adult-like pose, Sherlock really looked like a pirate. Greedy, hypersensitive, resistant. A round fleck among the segments of a regular pattern. Truth to tell, John was somewhat happy to have received the honour of witnessing his death, because he knew that no one would have fit the round space in the pattern Sherlock would have left behind.

He offered him his ice-cream and was surprised to see Sherlock bite an icy milky protuberance on it.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Artificial teeth.”

“What? You actually did it?!”

“Last summer, when you went to that horrific scout camp in Yorkshire. It wasn’t that difficult.”

“You’ve never told me about it.”

“You should have noticed.” He sounded as if John had failed to acknowledge a new haircut.

Ten ice-cream bits and fifteen minutes later, Sherlock stopped examining a spider web on one of the few spare lights on the shore and spoke again.

“You will not feel any pain.”

“Sherlock, I’ve seen a dozen of living creatures drown during our game. They didn’t seem to enjoy the experience.”

“You will not feel anything,” Sherlock insisted.

John sighed and murmured a strangled “Okay” because what can you do when Sherlock unexpectedly discovers the art of giving comfort, even if he is going to drag himself and you into death in a couple of minutes? 

He considered saying something meaningful and placed a liquorice dice (which was a special present from the waitress) on the back of Sherlock’s hand, instead.

“The thing you said… was not entirely inappropriate.” 

He pressed his nails on each face of the liquorice cube leaving behind an invisible set of rune-like imprints – one on the top face, two on the bottom, three in the front and so on, until he carefully scraped six parallel curves on the sixth side. He lifted his blind dice.

“Two is the beginning of the end.”

“What?”

“You told me that.”

“It wasn’t me. Barrie wrote it. We read it at school, do you remember? _Peter Pan._ ”

“No, I don’t mean two years. I mean a couple of… I mean two persons. The two of us, in this specific case. Two is the beginning of the end.“

Sherlock stowed the liquorice dice in his pocket and licked at the dark shadows beneath his nails.

“Aren’t you going to eat it now?”

“Saving it for later.”

“Later?”

Sherlock shrugged and pronounced four words John had never heard him say before in that specific combination.

“You may never know.”

*

Turns out that leading a boat in a medium-big lake with a tied-down companion who wouldn’t stop squirming wasn’t an easy task at all. First of all, John hadn’t stopped asking nearly a thousand questions since they entered the boat – why do I have to take my T-Shirt off, what do I care about Archimedes if I’m going to die anyway, why don’t you also take your shirt off since… you know… Archimedes, why did you push me to the ground, what the hell are you doing, why do I feel so… dizzy… Sherlock why, why are you tying me down? Sherlock! Sherl…

And so on. He should have definitely put more concentrated chloroform on that handkerchief. He could still punch him in the nape to make him pass out, but fighting on a boat with a tied down boy was not the best strategy to stay alive.

Stay alive. Face the change. 

Breathe.

Sherlock rowed strongly toward the centre of the lake and tried to ignore John’s murmured threats.

“Trust me, John. It’s for the best.”

He wouldn’t have trusted himself then, to be honest. The air was so smoky and wet that he could barely distinguish it from the narcoleptic water that was…

“I think I hit my… _this,_ ” he tried desperately to point to his head with a tied hand, “my… _head_ , when you pushed me down. If someone miraculously rescues us before you kill us both, I’m gonna kick the brain out of your skull.”

Who had taught him such an overdramatic tone? It was beyond irritating.

“John,” he put a knife between his teeth and rummaged in his bag. “No one is going to kill us tonight.”

When John opened his eyes and mouth to reply, he believed he was seeing something ripping off the coast at the other side of the lake. He remembered he had no right to feel relieved at that in front of Sherlock, so he asked nonchalantly.

“Who’s there?”

Because, if it wasn’t Mycroft, it should better be someone with a good gun.

“A friend.” Sherlock’s voice vibrated though the knife with pure excitement.

Shit, it couldn’t be Mycroft.

The boat rocked and rocked on the still water and… _Holy crap_. He couldn’t fall asleep now. Damn Sherlock with his… his experiments and venoms and… and… _things_ …

The foreign boat was nothing but a darker fleck against the black sky and the dead water. It was somehow faster than theirs, but from what he could see from his lying position, there was just one tall person on it. Memories of imaginary sandmen and Irish vampires suddenly peered in his mind like a creepy Halloween parade, as if he was still 5 years old.

The air was sweeter and lighter now that… Now that Sherlock had stopped rowing. The boat was just some meters away from them – he could hear it.

Sherlock could see it.

Sherlock could see _him_. 

And soon their plan of drowning in The Butter seemed extremely enticing.

“Okay, Sherlock. Playing pirate again?”

It was not _okay,_ which was clearly signalized by the fact that Mycroft had never used the word _okay_. After a brief addiction to the term “yuppy!” (from 13 to 15 months), Mycroft had always sticked to polysyllabic words such as “marvellous” (3-6 years), “excellent” (6-8), then switching to more practical (but not less stylish) bisyllabic adjectives such as “superb” (8-13), “splendid” (13-present) and so on. Enthusiasm was good as long as it didn’t expand. And then again, two syllables were quite enough – the first to encourage obedience, the second to convey the necessary amount of paternalistic sarcasm. 

“Mycroft?”

Something was very clear on John’s face, because Sherlock leaned over him and pulled the rope around his chest quite painfully.

“You called Mycroft? Are you _nuts_?”

John just grunted in response.

“ _When_ did you call him?”

“Home.”

“Home? That’s impossible. I’ve kept an eye on you the whole time!”

“You know ‘home’ is where I live and not where _you_ live, don’t you? You know I have my own house with my own parents and food and games and…”

“Oh shut up! You!” Sherlock fixed his eyes where Mycroft was supposed to stand on his own lousy boat. “You… just disappear. You’re already on the wrong side and I can’t see how you can help us. I’ll solve this alone.” 

“Oh, how heart-gripping, brother mine. And how do you propose to do that?”

Sherlock kicked against the wood (managing not to fall over) and shouted: “I _proposed_ to _die_!” 

“Die?” Mycroft’s voice was slightly deeper than last July. “Please, Sherlock, do not insult my intelligence. You could barely stand the thought of your body transforming if you are not there to catalogue and analyse the different stages of decomposition. You’re extremely jealous of your body, so much so that you don’t even allow doctors to examine it.” John opened his mouth to retort that no, Sherlock was not like that – seriously not at all. He had let him extract all his lower milk teeth and… And Mycroft continued: “You would live forever just to witness your death.”

“Paradoxes don’t suit you, Mycroft.”

“Death in water doesn’t suit you, Sherlock. You just needed an extreme plan to manipulate your… associate into following you. Honestly, I would expect from you a rather spectacular and all-consuming depart.” Mycroft feigned a thoughtful pause. “Death in fire. A glorious death, isn’t it? Yes, I reckon it would be unnecessarily painful, but you wouldn’t mind a little agony for drama’s sake, would you?”

“Are you going to recite your villain monologue in the centre of a lake?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. You are the one who excels in it.”

No one spoke as Mycroft fixed their boat to his with a set of ropes. Of course, Sherlock didn’t even pretend to help.

“A runaway.” A runaway? “Organized by an Omega black marketer. Very impressive. I didn’t imagine the road to Neverland met The Butter at some point.”

Sherlock sighed.

“I cannot fight against my body.” When John spoke, he didn’t know if it was giving voice to his or Sherlock’s thoughts.

“How wise of you.”

“Mycroft…”

But Mycroft just kept rowing strongly until they reached the Southern shore of the lake.

“We forgot our shoes. We forgot our shoes on the other side,” John repeated in a sleepy voice while rolling on the grass out of a boat that could have been a coffin. Shoes? Why had they taken off their shoes? Had they worn shoes when they had come to the lake? Why did people wear shoes, by the way? 

Sherlock’s huffed laugh felt freezing against his wet nape. What was…? Oh, he could move his hands. Sherlock was untying his first… second… and third hand. Oh, no – that was his foot. His first foot. 

“Mycroft, did you bring shoes?”

“No.”

“You are useless. Why did you have to call _him_?”

The grass was the coldest and wettest thing he had ever put his feet on. Why was no one considering again the idea of jumping into the lake? God, life was going to kill him.

He walked with a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for… probably for days, until a darker fleck popped out of an ensemble of trees.

“Oh, Mycroft, what an awfully hideous car.”

“All the better to stalk you with, brother mine. Get in.”

They crawled on the backseat through the passenger’s door without a word.

When the hot air in Mycroft’s car hit his face, John felt even sleepier and possibly passed out between Sherlock and the glass. 

Sherlock… He was talking to Mycroft. Wordlessly. As if it was possible.

“It was the most reasonable…”

“Oh, Sherlock – shut up!” Mycroft briefly sounded like the teenager he was before turning on the engine and driving annoyingly slowly. “You are just a kid.”

“I am not a kid!”

“Yes, you are. Sherlock, even if you grew a beard, it would still be evident that you are a kid. A kid with a beard.”

Sherlock clenched his fists.

“Of course I’m a kid. And I don’t want to be anything else.”

John reflexively rolled his eyes, even if he didn’t know if he was sleeping or dreaming or dying. At some point, John was even expecting Sherlock to scratch glass like a cat.

The not so silent conversation seemed to be over, so John tried to open his mouth just to keep himself awake.

“The tea?”

Sherlock’s interest shifted almost imperceptibly from the barely visible blur of trees and high tension pylons in the darkness to the backside of the passenger seat in front of him. No reply – good sign. 

“You drugged the tea, didn’t you?” 

“You do me a huge disservice if you think that I put drugs in your tea, John.” He hugged his knees. “It was on the handkerchief.”

“What handkerchief?”

“The one I gave you at the bar. The one you used to clean your mouth.”

Sleepiness didn’t allow him to look shocked, but he tried anyway.

“You’re a monster. I’m never going to trust you when you’re being so nice to me.”

“Don’t worry. It will never happen again.”

“You drugging me? I should hope so.”

“No, me being nice to you.”

Sherlock turned away. 

“I clearly used too little of it. You shouldn’t even be able to speak right now.“ 

“Oh, should I say ‘thank you’? Thank you!”

Victor was right about caring, Sherlock thought.

Minutes flew away like the bats that were currently monitoring the countryside on both sides of the street. When they arrived at the little summer house of the Holmes’, Mycroft blocked the car doors and turned to John, who could only concentrate on fighting his falling eyelids.

“You will never be safe. As an Omega, you will always be tradable and usable. At certain intervals, you are even going to crave being traded and used. You are going to enjoy it because this is your nature and culture, because this is what you are. And what you are matters, as long as you let the world play with it. As long as it pleases the world.”

“We already know that, Mycroft.” John shook his head at how paternalistic a 16-year-old boy could sound. “Besides, it’s irrelevant. I will get candied.” He had already absorbed the army jargon, including the word for the heat-discouraging shot – “candy”.

“Yes, you can do that,” Mycroft conceded.

“He can’t go to the army. He is going to be too short. Tell him he is going to be too short!”

“I could take a shot for that, too,” John yawned.

“A substance that makes you taller? Nothing like that exists, John.”

“You would invent it.”

“Certainly not!”

“…Or you can do something else,” Mycroft intervened. “Let your body grow. Let it tell you what it wants to say, let it make its point. Don’t be a coward. As soon as it tells you what it wants, you’ll be entitled to playing pirate with it for the rest of your life, if you want. Don’t…”

Mycroft was interrupted by a rapid movement on the backseat. Sherlock exited the car without showing any reaction. Well, not exactly. He “accidentally” hit the rear mirror with his shoulder and moved it into an entirely different angle before jumping in the toxic humidity of the English countryside, helping John out of that metallic coffin and craning his neck toward the driver seat.

“Where are you going?”

For an instant, Mycroft’s lips disappeared behind his teeth. 

“Sleep tight, Sherlock.”


	4. Crystal fashion show

When Sherlock left, his room in his parents’ house contained very few objects reminding of his childhood and adolescence there. His second-hand microscope, fifteen clocks, the sleeping bag where he had experienced his first heat, a bird cage full of leaves, the mattress where they had had their second so-called sex-talk:

“Sherlock, I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn about it. Your room is square, so you can’t paint the whole periodic system on the ceiling. You have to adapt it in order to…”

“My anus is mine.”

“…”

“…”

“Never tried to state the contrary, Sherlock.”

“You know what I mean.” He repeated with more emphasis, so that the resulting sentence didn’t sound like a repetition at all. “My anus is mine.”

“And mine is mine. Now that we’ve established our rights of property about our own arses, could you please go back to your questionable renovation plans?”

A chalk skeleton, razors, a dusty apple.

Then there were scattered tape, ropes, his blood on the curtains:

“Cathodes are a boy’s best friend.”

“Oh stop it, you self-destructive git. You’ve just got obsessed with haemoglobin.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“Oh, really? Like when you started watching _Twin Peaks_?”

“Stop it, John. I wasn’t obsessed. Just… intrigued.”

John’s nails under the bed, mercury in a Pepsi bottle, a marijuana stash (among the leaves in the bird cage).

The carpet where he had found out his second gender with a homemade ultrasound scanner (12 years old).

“One, one point two…” He squirmed on his belly to look up at the monitor. “One point four, one point… One inch and a half. Well, John,” he wrote down the acquired data, completely oblivious of the fact that John was not there at all. “Look what I have just found. It could be a uterus or… a tumour.” The ink on his pen tasted like rancid… _rancidity_ , oh dear imaginary Lord. “A tumour. Yes, it must be a tumour. It is definitely a tumour.”

“Hey there, my dear tumour,” Sherlock added soothingly. “Your name is Jim and you are going to kill me before a metaphorical Mother Nature smothers me in my sleep with a splashy tube of flesh called uterus. Spread your blessed metastases straight into my heart as if it were confetti, darling. Don’t disappoint me.”

Notes, a surprisingly accurate miniature of London Bridge made of chewing-gums, pictures of Jim, pictures of John.

Cassettes, pencils, John’s Kurt Cobain poster, a collection of German fables. Juniper seeds.

A dagger.

And opaque laboratory glassware, muddy shoes, a dry flower, meters of skin scattered on the floor. Bones.

Tissues.

Dust.

Water.

On second thought, the room was an unholy mess. The 1990’s hadn’t brought anything remarkable to it, just like the 2000’s hadn’t brought anything interesting to Sherlock’s life – except for an updated bunch of dull popstars to evict from his Mind Palace.

The last assertion might be slightly inaccurate, though. The 2000’s had struck him with some brilliant revelations and a striking amount of experiments – even multiple experiments, annoyingly sponsored by Mycroft Holmes and his unnerving Tinker Bells.

The experiment was particularly complicated this time. The freak-show of chemistry, Sherlock considered before performing a half pirouette to grab a pipeline from the shelf. Besides, the dim light filtered through the skyline of heads behind the glass was insufficient to conduct an experiment on organic crystals. And he was never going to get used to the parallel lines of sperm flowing down the other side of the shop window, even though the glass was considerably cleaner in comparison to the last time. Considering the density of semen in average smokers and the friction coefficient of common glass, the sperm was dripping too slowly. It would have always dripped too slowly. 

Although the reaction of his crystals was clearly more annoying than a bunch of sexed-up Alpha dubstep enthusiasts. “That’s unquestionable,” he said, wrote or perhaps just thought. 

_ Just thought. _

The unexpected memory of his first Demonstration almost made him slip on his own slick. It felt like walking confidently in his Mind Palace and falling through a secreted trapdoor, landing on the wrong floor. The risks of a 3D memory device, he thought. _It’s all heights and depths. You can always fall through it._ He missed the plain structure of his childhood Mind Map sometimes.

He didn’t remember the first time, actually. Well, of course he did – he had stored the event in the 3D structure of his Mind Palace – but he couldn’t say if it was the very first time. If this specific information had been of a certain relevance, Sherlock would have narrowed it down to a couple of demonstrations using a limited set of observations (probably back to 2003):

  * He hadn’t used any protection the first time.
  * John wasn’t there the first time (it was beyond irritating how tenaciously John tended to miss his first times, with some obvious exceptions).
  * He had been sitting in a parked car when he first experienced a heat in public, i.e. outside of his or John’s bed.
  * The last remains of cocaine were plundering his mind so brutally the first time that… Shit, he had forgotten to take his anti-heat pills.
  * And again, he was trapped in a bloody limo in the middle of London with a… thing, a long thin thing. What was that? The Truth, said cocaine. All you need, said serotonin. A boastful snake, said his eyes. Mycroft’s umbrella, said his hands. Mycroft, said his nose. Who cares – I have to piss, said his brilliant brain.



Yes, that had been his first Demonstration. Like the most first times, it had been terrible – in this specific case, Mycroft’s presence made it nearly unbearable.

“Take it.” A little rainbow cube had slid into his hands – a rain…bow? It couldn’t be a bow, it was a cube. A raincube? That didn’t convey its polychromatic nature, though.

“It’s a 3D Mondrian work,” Sherlock tried.

“There are too many colours for it to be a Mondrian work,” said the voice behind Mycroft’s face.

Oh. 

“Oh. It’s… a Cubic’s rube. A Kubrick’s nude. A… A _Rubik’s cube_. Isn’t it a bit too 1980’s style, brother mine?” 

“Solve it.”

Sherlock stared at the hands holding the cube and considered all the possible chromatic combinations before stretching the cube toward the body with Mycroft’s head on it. Oh my made-up God, stretching a hand? He could even control those fingers! Wasn’t it incredible? Why didn’t Mycroft find it incredible?

“It’s terribly simple,” Sherlock declared, still a bit excited about the unforeseen supernatural outcome of his coke addiction.

“Don’t solve it with your head. Solve it with your hands.”

Well, that was more of a challenge, since his hands – oh, _his_ hands? – couldn’t stop energetically patting an invisible head. Oh, it wasn’t invisible – it was John’s! John was there, John… No, said his tongue. It still was Mycroft’s wet umbrella, damn it. Why had Mycroft forgotten his umbrella on the backseat? And when had Mycroft left? He may have said “I’m going to get some supplies” at some point, but he wasn’t entirely sure. He could have said as well “I’m eating a bag of fried butterflies”, for all he knew.

Sherlock touched a bitter lemon square on the cube and soothed it and caressed it and whispered the sweetest words, but the spot still didn’t want to move.

“Come on, I can’t solve you if you don’t move. One turn to the left, move!”

He thought the yellow square on the cube had just told him to fuck off, but again, he wasn’t that sure. Truth to say, the salty knocking all over the car was quite distracting.

“C’mon!” Sherlock pushed on the yellow spot with nothing less than desperation and… Damn, Mycroft should have taken away that hideous umbrella – its constant staring was not helping at all. It smelt judgy.

And its gaze was demanding. Craving. 

And now there were more and more umbrellas beyond the car glass – what the hell was that? A bloody umbrella fair in the middle of London?

Except – no.

When the salty knocking became a caramel-sweet rocking movement, he felt for the first time his wet trousers rub and cool against his thighs. Holding the cube in his sweaty trembling hands and wondering about the nature of that wetness (urinal or hormonal) was apparently too much to him at the moment, so he stopped doing both. 

There were faces outside. Possibly umbrellas with faces and hands and partially unzipped trousers. Alpha umbrellas.

And he was in the middle of a particular liquid heat. With cocaine swimming in his blood. Trapped in a car. Hallucinating. Alone. No, worse: with Mycroft’s threatening umbrella.

They were trying to get in the car with their fingers and noses and umbrella penises, but it was like stepping through a monitor, said cocaine. Mycroft must have locked the car after leaving, said Sherlock’s hypothalamus. Mycroft should eat his butterflies a bit faster and come back immediately, said dopamine. Preferably without wearing his horrid face, said the entirety of Sherlock.

The world outside was a Scrabble table with an exceeding number of _s_ ’s and _l_ ’s, said his ears. All of them – an obscene dodecaphony of words – flooded the car from the street: _slag_ and _slow_ , _slap, slick, slab. Slut._

Sherlock grabbed hesitantly his cube. The contours were pretty sharp – even with his trembling hands he could have hurt them if they had managed to get in. Straight in those staring eyes, now stick to the car glass, moaned serotonin. Blood on each of those six faces, all covered in red. At least, that would have partially solved the damn cube.

_ Slam, slack, slut. _

That yellow square would have faded to red and disappeared, whispered cocaine. 

_ Slut, slide, slime. _

He tried to lift the Rubik’s cube in front of the Alpha faces beyond the glass as if it was a lethal weapon, but his arm wouldn’t obey. He wasn’t even sure that arm was his, so he let both slide down on the backseat and simply waited for the Alpha gang to unlock the car, press him against the backseat and fuck him dry for the next seventy-two hours non-stop.

_ Slut, slag, slide, sla… _

Fuck his _anus_ , which was _his,_ said amygdala. 

_ Slide, slave, slide, slooowly… _

Fuck you all, just try and catch me, shouted adrenaline.

_ Sl…, slide, slide, slide… _

What?

“Slide!”

_ Slide? _

“Slide it to the left!”

It seemed like his Mind Palace had upgraded to a 4D version of itself. He could feel time condense and expand on his skin and with the twitch of a finger perhaps… Yes, time was vibrating, all fleshy and wet. And the words popped up again.

“Slide the yellow square to the left!” It was a woman’s voice. An Alpha umbrella – no, an Alpha woman, an Alpha tube driver from Liverpool. A young unbonded Alpha with sinusitis and a lot of pets. He remembered her voice – she had shouted “get outta here, little Omega slut” just a few seconds ago, slobbering on the car glass.

“The yellow square?” Sherlock gestured.

“Yes, slide it to the left.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Well, try harder,” said the Alpha man who just a moment ago had been compulsively repeating “Daddy’s filthy slag” and snarling at him till Sherlock’s attempt to shield himself with the cube.

“If you still want to solve the puzzle,” added an old Alpha in the corner, all serious face and both hands still nonchalantly strangling his own penis.

Sherlock stared at them and tried to move the fingers that were clutching the cube. Try harder, growled adrenaline. Still shaking a bit, his right hand slid against the wet surface of the puzzle (sweat? Slick? Saliva?) and tried to push the yellow square to the left. It still didn’t work, but he felt less resistance this time.

“You should call someone,” suggested the first woman, her dog bag casually covering her crotch. Was she… embarrassed?

“Someone?”

For the cube?

“Someone to protect you,” she clarified. “It’s dangerous for an unbonded Omega like you to… Don’t you have an Alpha?”

“Oh no, I have something better. However, as you can see, I don’t need anyone to protect me. I protect myself alone. And alone protects me.”

When Mycroft came back, the group was still rocking the car rather absentmindedly. A quick glance at him revealed that no, he hadn’t left to eat a bag of fried butterflies. He chased the Alphas off, instead, and wiped the sperm off the glass with his best disgusted grimace before opening the door.

“You are lucky,” he said.

“Apparently, your body seems to run faster than you,” he said.

“And faster than cocaine, but we already knew that,” he said.

When he finally answered, Sherlock had already solved the cube.

 “They were rocking me to the rhythm of my synaptic activity. ‘Twas stimulating.”

Mycroft nodded. He wasn’t an umbrella anymore – probably. Sure, he looked like one, but he was… looking away, silently waiting for him to understand what had just happened.

Unlike John. John didn’t wait a second. Sherlock’s phone vibrated miserably at John’s shouting performance not more than twenty-four hours later. It was all an annoying “don’t do it again” and “take your damn pills” and “if I were there, I would cut you open and place your bloody anti-heat pills one by one in your stomach – that’s a promise”. Sherlock didn’t say that he would have taken no more pills, any pills, no. He didn’t say that he was profoundly thrilled by the potential of those episodes and that he would have never refused to explore, for nothing in the world. He didn’t say that they could have easily avoided such a situation if John had unreservedly followed him thirteen years before instead of appealing to Mycroft – damn, to _Mycroft_! He didn’t even say that the army was really doing wonders to John, since he just sounded like the Alpha that he wasn’t. Except – no, he said it and John performed his characteristic “I’m hurt and furious, but I won’t tell you, I’ll let you deduce it from my” sniff.

No. But Sherlock knew that John wouldn’t have reacted cheerfully to the accident occurred in Mycroft’s parked car (“Why did he leave you alone, anyway?” “I think he was intending to make a point.” Multiple passive-aggressive sniffs). Explaining to John what had happened seemed to be almost as difficult as it had been for Sherlock to reconstruct and catalogue the damaged data leading to this. Nevertheless, explaining was one of his favourite activities and John must have known that, because he suddenly ceased to grunt and sniff and groan and _breathe_ so loudly through his tiny Nokia.

“John?” Sherlock called with feigned innocence, shaking energetically a couple of eyeballs in a cup and almost slipping on his own slick in an atypically graceless attempt to switch the microwave on.

“Come on, Sherlock. Enlighten me. I know you will. What important psychological turn have I missed?”

“…”

“Sherlock?”

“We’re going to need a housekeeper. My fluids are everywhere.”

“Yeah, well, that’s… that’s sexy, really. Now tell me about the Alphas.”

Sherlock smiled at the leaking eyes behind the microwave door, but he was actually smiling at John. Probably.

“I think it would be more effective if you made specific questions. John.”

In the end, the elaboration of a limited set of verifiable hypotheses was exactly how Sherlock had proceeded to figure out what had gone _right_ in Mycroft’s limo the night before.  To figure out why his body had worked faster than him, as Mycroft had put it.

So John sat down ( _shuffling of trousers + sinister squeak_ _ à _ _ cheap plastic hospital chair _ ), closed his eyes ( _relieved sigh + prolonged silence – too long to be natural, too short to be a symptom of distraction_ ) and the questions rained down in a steady voice.

No, answered Sherlock, the Alphas hadn’t clearly tried to attack him – they had just circled the car and moved it a bit, attracted by his scent. Yes, half-lied Sherlock, he was conscious enough to hit back and/or call for help and/or run away, if that had been necessary. No, lied Sherlock, he wouldn’t have defined the whole situation as fun, “I swear”. No, groaned Sherlock, the Alpha gang wasn’t going to _take advantage_ of him. What an idiotic expression, by the way – as if Sherlock had implicitly offered something to them. And no, he hadn’t lifted the cube to distract the Alphas. I mean, what kind of Alpha would get distracted by a Kubrick’s cube (or whatever its name was) before an unbonded Omega in heat? No, considered Sherlock, his body hadn’t worked on an unconscious level. More precisely, his body had worked alone on a much more elaborate plan. It had showed the Alphas that Sherlock wasn’t craving their touch, that he could still function in spite of the heat, that _they_ could still function in spite of his heat. Well, more or less. The movement of his arm… It was not trying to shield him from the danger. It was giving him – it was giving them all a choice.

“Why do you say that it wasn’t trying to shield you? Lifting one or both arms is a universal defence strategy.”

“It wasn’t defending me. My arm was…”

“…was trying to prevent them from hurting you. Sherlock, you were almost attacked, it’s entirely normal that your body reacts this way if…”

“I am not a victim, John. I don’t need anybody – my body – to defend me. It’s not like that.” The pig eyeballs _plopped_ obscenely in the microwave. “I was an Omega to them. Not Sherlock Holmes, no. I was nothing but a mask, the mask of all Omegas in space and time. I was the choice to let my slick drip down along my legs. I was the choice to swim in it. I was the choice to waste it. Waste! Yes, that’s the key. The cube was neither a weapon nor a distraction. It was a demonstration – The Demonstration. This is what we are. And this is how it changes – sliding, not pushing.”

John’s relative silence sounded like acoustic scepticism.

“So, you don’t think you enjoyed this experience because you want to be… uhm, adrenalized or… catch attention?”

“Don’t you have inflamed tonsils and/or congested intestines you should take care of?”

“Sherlock…”

“I hate it when you don’t listen to me. Listen to me.” Sherlock couldn’t decide if the irises in the cup looked watery or oily, so he threw his notes away. “Listen to me. Nature is culture. Culture is choice. We can stay who we are and still be different, John. Being an Omega and wasting our slick. We can become who we are, walking on alternative paths. That’s not sick, John – not at all. These choices… they’re not symptoms – they’re paths. We can walk the injection path and the hysterectomy path and the pill path and the concrete walls path – or… we can waste ourselves and show them (us!) what we look like. That’s something Omegas already know, even though on an unconscious level. But Alphas don’t. They only see their reflection in our slick – never look through it, never observe. They need to be shown.”

“And you are going to show them, right?”

“Yes.”

 “Using… yourself?”

“Of course. I love using myself.”

A _ping-peep-ping_ echoed through the phone.

“How?”

“I’m elaborating a plan.”

“Which involves your microwave?”

“No, that’s… another experiment. Pig eyeballs. I’ll send you a picture later.”

“Can’t wait.” John’s voice sounded inappropriately sweet.

“Go save some insignificant lives, John.”

His phone performed a graceful jackknife toward the couch and vibrated desperately four or five times before going quiet.

Watery or oily? The pig irises were placidly swimming in their own liquid, apparently too foul to emit a satisfactory explosion in the microwave. Damn standard fridge. They really needed a housekeeper to take care of that sort of things.

Watery or oily? In comparison to John’s eyes, their structure appeared much denser and more disarticulated at the same time.

Watery or oily? They were… neither watery nor oily. Rather buttery.

Buttery.

Definitely buttery, thought Sherlock two miles and five years away from his flat. He missed the cocaine-induced synaesthesia of that first episode, somehow. The pain in his lower abdomen during the heats was just pain without cocaine – not even a yellowy blur or a bubbling stream of binary code. Maybe it was just a bit fluorescent and almond-flavoured due to the cigarettes, but still painful.

Buttery, he confirmed staring at the Alpha eyes peering in his improvised lab on the other side of a Max Martha shop window. John would have surely pointed out that comparing Alpha eyes to microwaved pig eyeballs wasn’t quite appropriate and could have been considered as an offence, but Sherlock disagreed with him in his mental conversation. He knew that pigs had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, after all.

Excited Alphas were all buttery. Buttery saliva, buttery sperm, buttery sweat. He briefly looked at all those fluids lingering on the glass and quickly rushing down to the pavement of Hudson Street in messy milky streams.

His gaze followed those streams and the crowd of passers-by behind them.

The glass would be all clean one day, he thought. He could already see their bodies clearly and drink in their whole lives – missing wedding rings, ink on fingertips, cat scratches on the wrists, cheap shampoos, acne scars, patterned socks, layers and layers of clothes and hairs and skins and muscles and bones and again muscles and skins and hairs and clothes and atmosphere and dust and stranger skins. 

One day, the glass would be as clean as the Bunsen he was tapping on, thought Sherlock.

One day, there would be no glass at all, thought Sherlock.

One day, that man would be her meth cook, thought a student on the street.

One day, that man would be the father of his children, thought a dreamy-eyed drummer behind the glass.

One day, he would get to chase proper criminals for once, thought the newly promoted DI Lestrade. Not that he wanted his job to kill him, but if so, then please not on a crowded street in front of a leaking Omega who was apparently conducting a sodding experiment in an improvised lab on the other side of an equally sodding shop window, for Christ’s sake. Bloody hell, this was even weirder than the Omega porn he had confiscated last week. That one where teen Omegas had their heat at school and dragged their wet pants on their Alpha teacher’s lap and begged them to slow-fuck them with their big leaking… No dirty thoughts at work, damn. He was a bit envious, of course – because what kind of Beta didn’t envy feral need and complete subjection? But that wasn’t the reason why people had called the police. And the reason was (quote): “A leaking Omega slut in heat is doing experiments behind a shop window next to St. Marina’s school. Yes, his slick is everywhere and you can smell it from outside, it’s disgusting. I don’t know, the damn slag is scaring my children, be fast!” 

When DI Lestrade had arrived, no child was screaming with fear. He just saw a couple of Alphas masturbate against the shop window, but the remaining people seemed to be fascinated by anything the Omega was dissolving in mercury. Some were commenting, some were asking each other questions, some were staring at their phones.

How could they ignore such a strange view? An Omega behind a shop window, stirring in his regular heats, hot fluid running down his thighs. He did nothing to hide it. Conducting his experiments and reconstructing a… a crystal, probably, making his point simply doing what he always did, shaping himself. Or so it seemed.

He didn’t need to call his colleague to lead the man into the Scotland Yard car.

*

Looking at the tiny brownish flecks on the table in the interrogation room, Sherlock had to recall the pigeons he had adopted when he was five. Their excreta were just in the same vomit-inducing shade of brown.

“Mr… Holmes, could you please pay attention? You’ve just been arrested, in case you didn’t notice.”

Just like DI Lestrade’s jacket. Holy goodness, was pigeon-excreta brown suddenly in? Why hadn’t he been able to predict such a hideous move in the British fashion scene?

The answer could have been a bit embarrassing, so he decided to increase of 1% the attention he was paying to the pigeon man. 

“You should arrest 85% of them. Or the whole mankind, for what it’s worth.”

DI Lestrade seemed to possess that certain amount of stupidity that made people patient. Ew.

“Why?”

“They’re rapists. Serial and self-righteous rapists.”

“Rape is not a crime – not when Omegas in heat are involved.”

“Not yet.”

Lestrade sighed. Poor man, he had already tried and failed five times to extract from him some relevant information about his Demonstration in Soho – and he didn’t even seem to lose his patience. Oh, well – when your wife makes you sleep on the kitchen floor, it is entirely normal to feel the urge of staying away from home after… approximately thirteen hours of work. 

“I don’t get it. What’s your role in it? Why do you have to do this? Why do you think you’re responsible for their behaviour? What point are you trying to make? Is it just that… you reject sexuality?”

He whispered the last word licking his lips, as if he was the kind of man who spoke about sex only with his mates around two pints of beer. What was going wrong with Scotland Yard exactly?

 “Oh no, not at all. You may have missed my performance in Cardiff last year. I had intercourse with another Omega outside of our heats.”

Lestrade’s eyes literally bounced. That man was a challenge for general anatomy.

“You are one of the masked gits that…?”

“Yes, he insisted on masks. On the other hand, that wasn’t his worst idea ever.”

Lestrade licked his lips. Again.

“He?”

“Never mind. So, where’s my coffee?”

The silence was so complete that they could hear the agents outside chatter about a man called George and his extraordinary steakhouse. 

“What coffee?”

“You always offer coffee to your suspects.”

“You’ve clearly seen too many CSI spin-offs.”

Sherlock sighed. Sarcasm and windy days always made him sigh.

“There are coffee marks on both sides of the table and you are constantly licking your lips looking at the spots in front of your chest. You miss your interrogation coffee. Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

DI Lestrade barely managed to open his dry lips when the door of the interrogation room cracked open. A young candied Alpha peered into the dim cube of concrete and frowned.

“Oh, sorry. We need the room.” 

“Well, I’m using it.”

“Yes, but that’s more… urgent.” She waved at a couple of heads visible beyond her shoulders. “The victim’s father is here with his…”

“Hold on a second, Sally. What murder are you talking about?”

“Carrie Asling, the murder of East Road.” No instant realization on Lestrade’s part broke her rather eloquent pause. “The Economy student who was found by the Thames with her face in a puddle.  The one with the bruises on her back…” She trailed off, clearly embarrassed for him. And possibly for the whole police class.

“Oh, that. Okay, go on.”

“Carrie’s father is here with his lawyer.”

Their rather awkward exchange of looks was interspersed with a distinct dripping sound coming from Sherlock’s side.

“I guess…” Lestrade fixed his disconcerted gaze on the trio in the doorway. “I guess we can go to my office. He’s a rather… ordinary case.”

Sally the Alpha police woman made her most disgusted grimace when Lestrade pushed a dripping Sherlock toward the door. The slick formed a clear stripe from his chair to the threshold, a strangely linear puddle on which both the victim’s father and said Sally had almost slipped while reaching their chairs with the lawyer.

As soon as the door of the interrogation room was closed, Sherlock shifted his gaze from the ground to Lestrade and snorted, shaking his wet trousers like a disgraceful clown.

“You’re not even ashamed of yourself. How can you go on living? How can you resist the urge to…”

“Shut up and walk,” grunted Lestrade.

His office was a mess of paper and pens and documents. If they were all the currently open cases, Scotland Yard would have needed an artificial intelligence to sort it all out. Or Sherlock Holmes, of course.

His wet trousers smacked dramatically on the plastic chair when he collapsed on it.

“Congrats. You’ve got the right man in that room.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for your approval, Mr. Holmes. We’re Scotland Yard. We know what we’re doing.”

“It’s a shame that you’re going to arrest the wrong man, though.”

“What?”

“The victim’s father? Really? You’ve got zero sympathy for a man who’s just lost his daughter.” Sherlock shook his head mockingly.

Lestrade didn’t have to say “I don’t understand”, since every inch of his body was screaming it simultaneously in several languages.

“What _didn’t_ he do when we left the room?”

“What? He… He didn’t do anything at all. He just entered the room with his client and Sally and probably sat at the table with them.”

“Oh please, try at least to behave like you’re making a minimal effort to beat artificial intelligence.” Sherlock folded one end of his trousers to keep it from dripping on the carpet – because he was a considerate guest – and put the other foot on Lestrade’s desk. “He didn’t slip on my slick – he didn’t even try to avoid stepping on it. Do you know who else didn’t slip on my slick on our way from the shop window to Scotland Yard? A car mechanic, a nurse, a chemist, a housekeeper, a cheese quality engineer. What does a lawyer have in common with them?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Exactly. What do they have in common, apart from the lawyer?”

“They work using their hands and… their feet – their shoes!”

“Congratulations, you would even pass as believable at the Turing Test now. So, they all use their hands and must deal with more or less dangerous liquids. Given that all liquids are theoretically dangerous when you step on them, they all wear slip-resistant shoes or outsoles at work – and sometimes even at home out of habit. Understandably, lawyers don’t get in touch with liquids at work and don’t need to wear slip-resistant shoes at work, especially as the latter tend to be designed in a rather unfashionable style. Nevertheless, he’s working today in a comfortable pair of squeaking slip-resistant shoes. Not outsoles, but proper shoes.”

“What does this mean?”

Sherlock ignored him completely.

“His shoes. Shoes are often the key – people tend to underestimate everything that reminds them of the dust they’re not so slowly turning into. But he didn’t. He was really careful – too careful – and this ruined him.“

He waited for a response from Lestrade that never came.

“The lawyer has bought them recently – perhaps last week, since they were on sale till Sunday at Castavy’s (spending days behind a shopping window has some advantages). Was he planning a work trip to the lake? I don’t think so – he’s too old for that. He probably has little company, since his manners are a bit rough – did you see how he entered the room? And how amused he was when the victim’s father almost slipped on my slick? Actually, they’re friends. Or the victim’s father thinks they’re friends. So what has gone wrong? Probably a deal… there was a deal that someone didn’t follow. The lawyer has never worn a ring because – watch his fingers. He’s never been married, but he wanted a wife… he wanted his friend’s daughter as a wife. One of his daughters – one specific daughter. The Omega daughter, judging from his reaction of his pupils to my stream of slick on the floor. But her father didn’t allow that because she’s too young. Don’t ask me how old she is – I’m not a superhero. The deal was that he would get the other one, probably the Beta one – Carrie, our victim. And with ‘get’ I mean ‘buy’. They’ve got a little market out there, you know. So, what could the lawyer do to avoid to marry the wrong one? He thought killing her and letting her father be declared guilty was a good idea – then he could have married the unsupervisioned young Omega without any problems. And so he did it.”

“Wait, why drown her in a puddle and not in the Thames?”

“It was meant to hurt.”

“Drowning hurts either way. I’ve never seen anyone drowning and enjoying the experience.”

“Her death was meant to be as hurtful as possible for her father. And a stupid death usually generates a gap which you can’t fill with the sort of socially acknowledged pain you’re supposed to feel for your daughter’s loss. Why concede him the benefit of mourning? People can’t see how comforting pain can be when it’s all you’re expected to feel – quirks and flaws are shamelessly revealed, work and people are left behind without any sense of guilt, because who would blame a mourning man for ‘acting weird’? Everything revolves around you – you suffering, you hurting, you living, even you comforting your beloved ones. It’s all about you, it’s all pure unconditioned egotism, and it’s all fine. It’s really all fine, because you’re in a state of emergency, almost like the deceased you’re grieving for. Mourning _is_ the state of emergency. Mourning is bliss. Pure… impure bliss. That’s why funerals have worked so well for centuries, by the way. No, he wanted him to suffer a sort of pain that not even his body would recognize as such – a pain with no name to damn. A cynical laugh, a discrepancy, a short-circuit. A feeling… something you’re too ashamed of to show and too perturbed by to hide. Something disturbingly unsuspicious like a puddle. The sort of pain which is provided by a stupid death, indeed.”

“A stupid death?”

“Yes, there’s an idiotic TV show John loves which… Oh, never mind.”

Lestrade started breathing again because – when had he actually stopped?

“I… God, it really makes sense. How do you…? I mean, how can you do _this_? It’s… uh.”

Sherlock spoke just to stop the nonsensical syllables that were flowing out of the DI’s mouth.

“So you see, I’m anything but _ordinary._ ”

Lestrade laughed and hit the desk with his fist.

“Oh my God, it’s really the lawyer.”

“Yes, well – epic plot twist.”

They both stayed silent for a while – Sherlock looking out of the window from his chair, Lestrade staring at Sherlock and shaking his head.

The dripping sound echoed in the sudden silence.

“You should wear…” After Lestrade cleared his throat, his tone got almost admiring. “…something.”

“I’m completely dressed.”

“I mean, something for your fluids.”

“Why? I’m not ashamed. Besides, velvet tends to derive much benefit from Omega slick. According to my most recent experiments, it’s even better than fabric softener.”

“Good to know. Now it’s dripping on the floor, though.”

“Well, I’m currently breathing your evaporated sweat, but I’ve had the good grace to reckon that it’s considered rude to point it out. Unlike you.” He pointed at the DI with a rather aggressive move. “Anyway, I’m sure your dogs will clean it up later.”

“There are no dogs in my unit, just agents.”

“Exactly.”

Lestrade huffed a laugh and looked at him from between his fingers.

“How can you control your heat? I mean, your behaviour?”

“I trained. I think I’m an Alpha in an Omega’s body.”

“You use illegal substances.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“No.”

“You use them.”

“There’s no evidence.” That was particularly exasperating. He didn’t deny anything – he always dared intelligence. As if he was saying: _Good theory – how do you propose to verify it?_

“No, not in your file – actually, we don’t even have a file about you. But I’ve seen plenty of you out there. And in here. Do you have any idea why there isn’t anything about you here?”

“I know a man who tends to interfere with my activities just to take credit for all my successes. It’s extremely embarrassing. John calls him an ‘attention bitch’.”

“Who’s John?”

“John.” As if it was a particularly stupid question.

Lestrade decided to let it go.

“So, you use illegal substances.”

“ _Used_.”

“When did it start?”

“University.”

“How long?”

“Five.”

“Five what?”

“Years.”

“What happened then?”

“Boring. Are we finished? I should call John.”

 “Oh, so John really exists.”

“Of course.” He sounded sincerely offended. “John has always existed.”

He took Lestrade’s phone from his desk and ignored Lestrade’s ferocious glare.

“John? I’m at Scotland Yard. No, not for _that_ , for the other thing. You know that. Actually, it turned to be a quite different thing – DI Lestrade will explain it to you later. He looks just like our second pathologist, Dr. Caesium – isn’t it fascinating? Just, he is a man. Listen, do you think you can stop the war? …Oh, I thought that much – as precious as they are, doctors can really be useful only on a microscopic level. You’ll have to ask Mycroft. I _can’t_ ask him, John – you know that. Stop the war – and if you can’t, come anyway. Can you hear it? London is calling you, John. What?... What do I care? I’ve just solved a case!”

“Your slick did it,” was Lestrade’s quiet contribution to the conversation, which Sherlock ignored.

“Yes, I know. But this was a real case. Honestly, it was a frightfully simple one, but it’s just the beginning.”

Lestrade stood up in shock. “What? I’ve never said…”

“I’ll call you later about the details. The DI here is afraid his wife could get suspicious when she notices a 15-minute call to Afghanistan. You know, she works for a mobile operator… I’d say Alphone – you should see his eyebrows, it’s quite blatant. Exactly, just like that hostess in Peshawar.” A longer pause, then a chuckle. “Yes. Just tell him yourself – I have to go now. We’ll practice Dari later. Shohna ba Shohna, John.”

He threw the phone toward Lestrade and started unrolling his trousers, ready to leave the office.

“Er… Mr… John?”

“Oh, you must be DI Lestrade.”

“Yes, listen. I don’t think that…”

“Don’t arrest him, don’t stop him. He’s doing something beautiful.”

Lestrade’s turned his back to Sherlock and pretended to look for something under his desk.

“It’s dangerous.”

“He doesn’t need to be saved.”

“He’s an exhibitionist.”

John chuckled almost sadly.

“Don’t think of these… _events_ like that. They’re no exhibitions. They’re demonstrations. Sherlock is a heartless man of science, after all.”

“Heartless?”

“Well, in the most fascinating sense of the word. He’s as heartless as a child could be.”

“I see. Well, he’s brilliant.”

“I know. But don’t tell him – I’m the only one entitled to praise him.”

“Did he say that?”

“No. But one must have the right to be selfish from time to time, don’t you think?”

Lestrade imitated John’s chuckle.

“I guess.”

“And please, tell him that he can’t phone me at the military hospital. This is an emergency line.”

“That’s probably why he phones you there.”

“Yeah, sounds legit.”

When Lestrade finally stood up, Sherlock was examining a file in the doorway. He should have forbidden him to… Oh, who cares?

“So,” he continued. “You are in Afghanistan.”

“Oh no, I’m at Baker Barracks, West Sussex.” Lestrade infused in his silence as much perplexity as he could, so John clarified. “That’s where the special training takes place. If everything goes as planned, I’m leaving for Afghanistan in three months.”

“So why did he mention Afghanistan?”

Tenderness. John’s chuckle sounded like tenderness.

“Because an unexpected comeback from war-torn South-Western Asia possibly sounds more dramatic to him, I guess. You know, he’s such an unreliable narrator most of the time.”

_ Dear Lord _ , thought DI Gavin Lestrade. _This is the beginning of the end._


End file.
